


Distraction Techniques

by entanglednow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Foot Fetish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is distracting, John should be used to that by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction Techniques

  
It all starts during an episode of Time Team. When Sherlock slides his bare feet into John's lap. It's one movement, a slither that's almost proprietary, and he has the longest, palest feet John has ever seen. They're balanced carefully across his thighs in a way that's nothing but laziness.

He knows the right thing to do would be to shove them straight off and remind Sherlock that he isn't furniture, no matter what he seems to think sometimes. John knows he should do that. That he should do that now. But he gets as far as thinking about curling his hand round one of them - and his brain comes to a messy stop.

There's no way Sherlock knows, because no one knows, he's never told anyone, he's never even given any indication. It's just a thing - it's just something he thinks about sometimes. But suddenly he's staring at Tony Robinson rambling about Anglo-Saxon burial grounds and he's not listening to a word of it. Because John can feel the slow drag of Sherlock's heel through his jeans, and the way his toes catch on the edge of his jumper every time Sherlock stretches.

John's not going to touch. He's not going to do _anything._ But he wants to, he knows he wants to. His hand twitches on the arm of the sofa and then closes into a fist. A whole world of restraint. He shifts like he's trying to get comfortable, hoping Sherlock will drag them away on a huff. Because there's no way he can sit here with Sherlock's feet in his lap and act like everything's fine.

He underestimates Sherlock's ability to keep whatever he finds and he resists the movement. For just long enough that there's no way, no possible way, that Sherlock can't tell that he has an erection.

The silence hangs, and John's half terrified he knows what's coming.

Only then he hears a page turn, nonchalant, completely uncaring. John doesn't look over, doesn't dare. He's not quite sure how he's still breathing. He looks down instead, then wishes he hadn't, because Sherlock's toes curl and then stretch in a way which shouldn't be distracting but somehow is - and he's watching the television again with his fingers dug into the leather of the sofa and not hearing a single world.

Until Sherlock's foot moves, it's one slow drag against the fly of his jeans, which is clearly designed to arouse and can't possibly be mistaken for any sort of accidental brush or stretch.

John breathes out in one shuddering exhale, perfectly loud enough for Sherlock to hear and it's maddening that there's no reaction there. Just the rustle of paper and the air of complete disinterest.

He starts to think he's imagined it.

And then Sherlock's foot moves away, just a fraction, just enough that John could slip a hand down and unzip his jeans if he wanted to.

Oh God.

John's hand slides off the arm of the sofa, hovers somewhere near his own knee, uncertain.

Sherlock shifts his foot away a little more and John swallows a lump of something that wants to be either panic or desperate, shaky arousal. He doesn't even know anymore. His hand falls, fingers pressed into the button for a long second, undecided because, _Jesus_ , this isn't the sort of thing that he does.

The zip goes down almost completely silently.

Sherlock's foot sways back, toes flicking the fly open, and John inhales, quick and rough through his nose. Because there's almost nothing between the curl of Sherlock's toes and the sensitivity of his dick. And maybe he was wrong about how much he wanted this because he has his teeth dug into his lip and a whimper somewhere in his throat and he wants it so badly he thinks he might actually pass out.

It's too close and he can feel the steady press of Sherlock's foot, the curve of it, carefully shifting, one slow glide up and then down.

John drops his hand without thinking about it, fingers curling round the smooth arch of Sherlock's right foot, thumb laid over his toes and he drags in a breath because it's impossibly, shockingly intimate in a way he doesn't expect.

Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, the press and rock is lazy, unconcerned by the slow tighten and release of John's hand. John's struggling not to pull, not to do anything that will make this more scandalous than it is. Though he's not quite sure how he could _possibly_ do that.

He wonders, briefly, what it would be like if he dragged his boxers down as well, if it was bare skin pressed into bare skin.

John's fingers tighten, holding Sherlock's foot still and he makes a noise, a stunned exhale and everything is briefly too hot and too sharp.

He loses about half a minute of time trying to relearn how to breathe, wondering how exactly he's supposed to explain this.

When he eventually comes down from the dizzy thrill of orgasm, that he never actually got his boxers off for, someone on TV is talking about pottery shards, and Sherlock is very carefully rubbing his toes back and forth over the meat of John's thumb.

  



End file.
